


On Roses and Principle

by bibliomaniac



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Frottage, M/M, also hank is a gardener, lovingly known as 'bimbo hank', originally posted on twitter, so it's kind of ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:08:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliomaniac/pseuds/bibliomaniac
Summary: Connor's stay at his Aunt Amanda's house would be perfect if it weren't for the gardener, Hank, who is absurdly hot and absurdly nice and absurdly not someone Connor can go after. Except for, obviously, he's never asked Hank's opinion on that last one...(transferred from a thread originally on Twitter)
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 159





	On Roses and Principle

**Author's Note:**

> thread originally posted [here](https://twitter.com/boringbibs/status/1103502932434145280)
> 
> cws for this: referenced divorce & custody battle, brief talk about feelings of inadequacy, food mention

Connor will stand by this: all this is his Aunt Amanda's fault.

It's her fault that she has a lovely garden, her fault that she loves her roses too much to let them go untended while she's on sabbatical leave. And she's the one who hired Hank, so that's her fault too.

…Admittedly, though, he's the one who agreed to stay in her house while she's gone. He's in the last year of his master degree at the university she teaches at, and the apartment he'd been living in hiked up their rates, so it had seemed like a good deal at the time. That was before he had met Hank.  
  
Met isn't exactly the right word.  
  
That was before he had observed Hank, her recently-hired gardener—because while he is qualified to watch over a house, he is not qualified to do Anything with her roses—working shirtless outside.

In Connor's continued defense, it's not like he had started out the day intending to ogle anybody. He had been eating breakfast at the perfectly respectable not-lunch-yet hour of 11:55, a little sleepy still from sleeping in on a day off, and he had looked out the window, is all.

And then he had kept looking, and he had dropped his spoon in the sugary cereal Aunt Amanda would never have let in her house if she were here and milk had splashed a little bit onto his shirt but he didn't give a fuck because, like. Holy shit. He hadn't thought bears just walked straight into people's backyards like that. Or took off their shirts. Or looked like that, all sweaty and glowing and gorgeous under the sun while they bent down in their—why the _fuck_ is he wearing shorts that short, Jesus Fuck—

If he makes a strangled noise, that's nobody's business but his own.  
  
And also, suddenly, the gardener's, because apparently he had opened the window at some point and left it open, and, uh, apparently sound carries pretty well here. Who knew! He didn't, and hadn't wanted to! The gardener pauses, and then straightens up and looks over his shoulder towards the house. He's got a gorgeous face too, because fuck Connor and all, why wouldn't he, and now he's waving and smiling and calling, "Hey there!"  
  
His voice sends Connor the final inch into his grave. Rest in pieces, you gay disaster, he thinks miserably. Maybe Aunt Amanda, whose fault this all still is, will spare a rose for his funeral. His epitaph will be embarrassing.  
  
Connor, who is pretty sure he has either milk or drool or maybe even both on his chin, waves back feebly.

"I'm Hank," says Connor's murderer like a beautiful shirtless angel. "I'm guessing you're the kid Ms. Stern said was gonna be staying here while she's out?"  
  
"I'm 31," Connor says, which is not the answer to that question but suddenly feels important for Hank to know.

Hank's brows furrow, then he chuckles easily. "Okay, fair. Not so much a kid."  
  
"And Connor. Is my name." Christ, he doesn't even have a napkin to wipe his chin. "Hi." He doesn't have two brain cells to rub together anymore either, apparently.  
  
"Hey." Hank is grinning.

Connor directs a weak thumbs up in Hank's direction, and he laughs again when he returns the gesture, then nods and gets back to what he was doing before, you know. All of that. That five-star encounter that just happened.  
  
Connor gets up to get a napkin, glancing out the window. Hank is stretching, arms high above his head and back arched, muscles rippling as he comes out of the stretch with a loud sigh.  
  
Connor, with a freshly blotted chin and the beginnings of what is either a raging crush or just a raging horny, muffles his whimper into the napkin. And then he washes out his bowl, puts it and his spoon into the dishwasher for later, and gets the hell out of dodge. Back up to bed. Waking up today was clearly a mistake. Maybe if he goes back to sleep he gets a do-over.  
  
The room he's in has a window onto the backyard. It's not—okay, again, it's not like he sets out with ogling in mind, but he is—idly curious, just...if he can see Hank from this window too.  
  
Yes, is the unhelpful answer, and he groans before throwing himself onto his bed and pulling a pillow over his head.

The really unfortunate thing about this whole situation, other than all of it, is that Hank keeps coming back. Understandably, because it's his job, but Connor allows himself to feel offended by it anyway.

He justifies it by reminding himself that Hank is being very offensive. If he's not shirtless, he's wearing a shirt that really should be a size up for the sake of Connor's rapidly declining personal health, one that bulges obligingly around his belly and pecs and the thick of his arms, cut to show just the barest hint of Hank's silver chest hair. And then he'll bend over for something or reach up to trim something else and the shirt will ride up and show a flash of that belly, the dimples over his lower back just above his generous ass. Connor is pretty sure all of that is offensive. Maybe even illegal. (...Okay, not illegal, but it wouldn't be the first time a government had failed its people.) Or some days he doesn't even wear a tight shirt, sometimes he wears a perfectly respectable button-up, except it is NOT respectable because those buttons bulge obscenely over his chest.

And his clothes, or lack thereof, aren't even all of it somehow. If it were just a hot guy who fills out everything he wears or doesn't wear, Connor would, like, still be running low on lube, yeah, but mostly just on principle. Hank also is just—just. Whew. Okay. Connor doesn't know how Hank manages it, but he's just always...distracting. There's the aforementioned bending over and stretching and reaching, and all of those are awful already, but then Hank will also moan while he takes a seat down on Aunt Amanda's garden bench. Or, or...Connor will pass by his car on the way to his own for a class, and Hank will be leaning against the hood, head bent up to the sky and baring his throat, chest pushed out, looking relaxed and also like he could maybe lift the car and throw it.

Which brings Connor to the last thing, which is that Hank is just...he actually seems like a really nice guy. He always spares a word for Connor even at the beginning when Connor's rendered dumb and monosyllabic, even when Hank is busy. And that, maybe, is actually the worst bit. He asks Connor what he's studying, actually listens when Connor gets into it and starts rambling, pushing his glasses up his nose and gesturing expansively like he tends to. He asks Connor how his day is going and sounds like he actually cares about the answer.

He's _nice_. And nice means that Connor feels like shit that Hank is just trying to make conversation with a guy at his job and...and here Connor is, trying to pretend it's anything other than his fault that he's made this nice man into the object of all of his sexual fantasies. He deserves better.

And Connor tries, now, to be better about it. He asks Hank about himself too, learns about the kid who's his pride and joy, about the divorce that left him with partial custody. He takes in how some of the light leaves Hank's face when he talks about it. (And he wants to touch him, not sexual or anything, just—to let him know there's someone here. But all he can manage is an 'I'm sorry' and a feeling of guilt as Hank's distant look vanishes and his easy smile comes back.)   
  
Connor asks how he became a gardener, next. Hank talks about his dad and his garden, how he'd take him out every day and show him everything there, talk about the names and how he's taking care of them, brush reverent, delicate fingers over their leaves. His dad had passed away when he was in college, Hank says. He had dropped out in a sudden burst of reckless energy to try to build his dad's dream florist shop, some kind of attempt at preserving his dad's memory...but after ten years of it, he explains, he'd realized how much he missed being out in the actual gardens. Getting to touch the plants, getting to be out in the open with the sun and the weather. He feels closer to him this way, he says with a smile and some of that distance back in his eyes, and Connor clenches his fingers to keep them from reaching out to Hank like they want to.

Hank doesn't seem to have any of those same reservations, notably. He'll clap Connor on the back in passing, leaving a pleasant tingle between his shoulder blades and a startled blush high on his cheeks. Or, even later, when Connor finally feels comfortable enough to confide in Hank, talking about how he's always felt pressure to succeed and never felt confident in living up to that, about how he was supposed to be something special and ended up just as some lost kid, Hank pauses before putting a big hand on his shoulder. "Thought you said you weren't a kid," Hank says.  
  
Connor shrugs, small, like any bigger movement might break this moment.  
  
"Sounds to me like you've been trying your best." His hand tightens on his shoulder in a squeeze. "If somebody else is expecting more than that, fuck 'em."

That was the night Connor finally admitted to himself that maybe all of this wasn't just about Hank being ridiculously attractive and appealing, or about him being nice, that. Maybe the way his sight always ended up drawn to his window might not just be sexual frustration. Basically, it's the night he admitted to himself that he had a major fucking crush on Hank, and therefore also the night he properly acknowledged that he was fucked in every way other than the one he'd like.  
  
God fucking damn it. When Aunt Amanda gets back he's gonna…He doesn't even know. Destroy one of her roses in prolonged symbolic protest?  
  
...She'd destroy him right on back, he thinks glumly, curling up further in his bed and hugging the pillow closer to his chest. He's not going to do _shit_. He's just going to suffer, as always.

He keeps the window open now on days that Hank is working so that he can talk to him while he's having breakfast and Hank is checking up on the roses. The weather is shaping up to be properly hot later on today, and the air is already starting to feel sluggish around them.

"I prefer the cold, frankly," Connor is griping between peevish bites of toast. "At least then you can put on layers. What are you supposed to do when it's too hot, take off your skin?"  
  
"You can go swimming," Hank suggests, tsking at something on the trellis. He puts his hands on his hips too, to underscore his displeasure, Connor imagines. He doesn't imagine those hands gripping at his hips, how they'd dwarf them, doesn't imagine kneading at Hank's hips and using his grip as leverage to grind against his thigh, no sir. None of that.

"What, in the tub?" Connor asks amusedly. "The public pool near here is shit, you know that. And anyway, I don't like water much."  
  
"No?" Hank tilts his head, like he's thinking of something. "Hey, Con, could you come out here for a second, actually?"

It's not the first time he's asked for a hand with some minor task or other; Connor might not be good with plants but he can pick up tools or some potting soil just fine. He's already trotting around the corner and out the door as soon as the question registers, asking, "What—"

His question is drowned with a spray of water from the hose that Hank is cheerfully wielding. He takes off his glasses, wide-eyed, still processing that that just happened, and slowly wipes them against his t-shirt. "Hank, what the fuck."

"Uh." Hank almost looks apologetic. "I probably should have asked first whether—when you say you don't like water, is that, like—a—"  
  
His question is also cut off, except this time by Connor hefting the watering can near him and charging at Hank, yelling, "You did NOT!"

The grin returns to Hank's face, and he dodges Connor with an ease that Connor resents. "Oh. Okay. Are we doing this now?"  
  
"What we're doing is you're going to let me get revenge," Connor says grouchily, pushing his wet hair back out of his face, "Since you started it."

"Is that what we're doing?" Hank asks amusedly, and turns the hose towards Connor again. Now that Connor is closer, it means he gets a blast full to his shirt, and he gasps—partly real, partly mock-offense.  
  
"You're really asking for it!"  
  
"I'm just helping you cool down."

"Like hell," Connor grumbles and makes another pass at dumping the watering can over Hank's head, but Hank just sidesteps. Connor's wild lunge goes unbalanced. He thinks he's about to fall, for a second, water splashing everywhere, but then there's an arm steadying him. It's a warm weight across his chest, and he stops breathing for a few seconds before inhaling all at once and turning around.   
  
A terrible mistake. Hank's a bit flushed and sweaty from the heat and exertion, and Connor's never been this close to him or—or held by him like this. "Hey there," Hank says, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles, and for a moment—just a moment—Connor thinks his voice might have dipped lower, his breathing might have been just a touch heavier, his gaze might have been darker, flicked for a millisecond down to his lips—

But then Connor reminds himself that he's not supposed to be fucking _doing_ this anymore. Thinking about him wrong, putting thoughts in his head, assuming he knows anything. He doesn't.  
  
He says, "Hey," and then crows with delight when his questing hand finds the hose. He yanks it from Hank's grip, beaming, and turns the full force of its might on Hank.  
  
Connor, being an utter dumbass, doesn't really think this through further than 'he got me wet, I want revenge'. He didn't think it through, namely, to the part where now Hank is wet.

And.

Okay. So obviously Connor had _noticed_ that Hank was wearing a white shirt when he got here today. It would be terribly hard not to notice, with how it's all stretched everywhere and...and the rest. But he had tried not to dwell, is what he's saying.

Any pseudo-noble ideals he may have had are dashed down to the subatomic level faced with the actual reality of a dripping wet Hank in a white t-shirt. He's gone, deceased, completely blanked out, just staring at him with the hose hanging loosely in his hands. Hank doesn't even look mad; he's laughing, pushing his hair back with one hand, smoothing his transparent t-shirt down over his hips with another. Water is dripping down over the planes of his face, down his neck, collecting at his clavicle and the start of the bush of chest hair. The shirt was tight before it got soaked, but now it's clinging _everywhere_ , over every curve, over his hips, his belly, over—God, his cold-peaked nipples—

Kill him. Fucking murder him, he's already dead but he can always go deader.  
  
"Okay, I guess I deserved that," Hank says. Connor doesn't respond, at least not in any established language. Well. Probably. Maybe the strangled keening noise he makes is the language of some variety of bird, or a dying moose, but it's definitely not words.  
  
Hank looks at him anyway, eyes narrowing. "Connor? You okay?"  
  
His brain has officially vacated the building, which is probably why his mouth ends up going with "I'd be a lot more okay if you were less," and then he gestures broadly at all of Hank, and _then_ at least one light goes back on in the office and he gasps. "Uh."   
  
Hank's eyes narrow even further, thoughtful now. "Less what?"  
  
"Uh," Connor repeats, clapping a hand to his mouth, and then he does the only real responsible thing here: he dashes back towards the house.  
  
"Connor!"  
  
Nope. Nope nope nope nope. He's not doing this. He's specifically spent _months_ not doing this on _purpose_ , what the _fuck_ , why is he _like_ this—

He gets inside and rounds the corner, meaning to go straight down the hallway and upstairs where he can change out of these wet clothes and pretend none of this happened. But he's stopped by the sound of Hank's voice, concerned and commanding and pleading all at once, when he says, "Connor," again. Connor slowly turns to the kitchen and the open window Hank is leaning through, and—

God, he can't leave him there wondering just 'cause he's a coward. He slowly trudges back to the kitchen, back towards Hank, hands fluttering nervously at the hem of his wet shirt. "Hi," he mutters, apparently still just as awkward as the day they met. Not that he had thought any different.  
  
Hank's voice is gentle, but there's an undercurrent of something else there that he can't place when he responds, "Hey. Wanna...explain all that?"  
  
Connor wrinkles his nose. "Not really."  
  
Hank raises his eyebrows and crosses his arms underneath him on the windowsill, which has the added effect of pushing out his chest. This is, Connor supposes, because the universe hates him in particular.  
  
"But I will," he relents, and steps a little bit closer, shifting his weight between his feet, biting his lips. He's just gonna have to say it straight out. "So. The thing is." He peeks at Hank's expression. His face is open and patient and still very wet and still very hot, as it has continued to be all this time in a constant attack against Connor's horniness levels and overall being. "The thing is," he tries again, "You're very attractive."

He immediately winces. Jesus. This is going to go so badly already. But, well, he's already in it. "As in—you are—just, all of you," and he gestures at Hank again without looking at him, because he doesn't want to see his reaction. "Is just. Very good."

"Connor," he hears Hank begin, with that undercurrent he noticed before, but he shakes his head.   
  
"No, just. Let me embarrass myself all the way first before you—" He scowls, itching at the back of his neck. "Look. You're gorgeous. And I'm sure you know that, because—I mean, how couldn't you, you're—" He can't stop waving his hand at Hank like a fucking idiot. "You're just all, everything, and that's always been hard and no that's not a euphemism but also kind of to be honest—anyway."

He can't even bring himself to be embarrassed anymore. Probably because his soul is off floating somewhere where it can't hear him spewing utter bullshit. Good for it. "Anyway, but also, you're also...you're so nice, and sweet, and you listen to me and you're funny and, just, I didn't want to care about you even more than I did." His lips are chewed red now, he's sure. One of his bad habits. "But...I did. Do." He takes a deep breath. "And now," he waves at Hank one last time with his arms outstretched and his eyes closed, "Now you're wet in a white shirt and I'm just having a hard time dealing with that."

A solid, big, warm hand takes him by the wrist and his eyes fly open in surprise just as it tugs him forward to the window until he's flush against the wall in which it rests, staring in shock at Hank, who loosens his grip a bit around his wrist to bring his hand up to his lips. "You kissed my hand," Connor says dumbly, gazing at him.  
  
"I sure did," Hank says, "And if you don't mind, I'd like to kiss you elsewhere, too."  
  
"Uh," Connor supplies helpfully, and Hank brings one of those big hands to his cheeks, thumb stroking the path of a droplet of water. His eyes flutter closed again, just on instinct, and then Hank is kissing him. Properly, on the lips, and—well, they're not shoving their tongues in each other's mouths or anything, but Connor doesn't think he's wrong in saying that for a first kiss it's pretty intense. Or maybe that's just because it's Hank, Hank who's pressing against him insistently and still stroking Connor's cheek, Hank's other hand that comes up to the back of his head like he wants to keep him there. Which is silly. Connor doesn't want to leave either, after all.

When Hank pulls back, it's not far, and he licks his lips at Connor's dazed expression.  
  
"So," Connor says weakly.  
  
"So," Hank echoes.  
  
"Can I...take that as you saying that you don't think I'm awful and disgusting for fantasizing about you for the past few months?"

Hank's eyes darken. "You can take that as me saying I want to hear about every single one of those fantasies."  
  
"Ah." Connor gulps.  
  
"And that..." He kisses the tip of Connor's nose. "This window situation isn't very comfortable by the way—that's not what I'm saying, though—what I'm also saying is that I feel the same. About you being wonderful, about you being sweet and kind." He pauses, tilts his head like he did earlier. "A little bit scatterbrained."  
  
"You're not wrong," Connor concedes, especially given his brain is past scattered right now.  
  
"And also." Hank's voice goes low, dark. "That I'm having a hard time dealing with you in a wet shirt, and that I've had a hard time dealing with you always biting your lips and showing up all disheveled in the morning like you've just been fucked."

Connor might have been embarrassed about the sound he makes at _that_ at any other time, but as mentioned, he's past that. And anyway, Hank only looks hungrier at hearing it, and, well. That's a win in his book.  
  
"Connor," Hank murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips. "We should probably—talk things out, you know—work out—things."  
  
"Uh-huh," Connor says, less because he agrees and more because he is running on like 0.1% brain power right now.  
  
"But right now. If you wanted—if you'd let me. We could get out of these clothes, first."

The question is clear, and the second he's processed it, he's asking an incredulous, " _Let_ you? Jesus, Hank, I'd 'let' you do anything right now."  
  
Hank inhales sharply and growls, "Don't make promises you can't keep."  
  
"I'm not."  
  
Hank nods once, firm, and then he's gone. Just from the window, though, just to walk around to the door. He meets Connor in the kitchen, on the other side of the window for the first time, and they stare at each other for a few fraught moments before Hank is stepping forward and taking Connor in his arms to kiss him.

This kiss is dirty, and Connor moans into it and tries to press himself even closer, relishing in the feel of Hank's gut pressing against him, of how Hank feels like he could encircle him whole, stood towering over him like this. One of his hands gets to Hank's hips and uses it as a handle to grind them together, just like he had imagined.

Except better. So, so much better.

It's feeling harder for Connor to stand up right now, but Hank's hand splays strong and sure at his lower back, thumb kneading possessively into the dip of it. "I'm guessing you have a bed," he murmurs against a kiss pressed into Connor's neck.   
  
"If that's you asking for me to lead you to it, then yes." His breath hitches as Hank rolls back against him. "And also if you're just making a statement, still yes, but I'm hoping the first."

"Jesus." Hank snorts, amused. "Yeah, lucky number 1, you pedantic fuck."  
  
"I'm not pedantic, I'm precise," Connor recites; it's an old, playful argument between them by now. "Okay. Bedroom."  
  
"Bedroom," Hank agrees. "Though. You know, how big can the upstairs be?"

"In square footage?" Connor asks, confused momentarily, but he realizes what Hank is getting at when he's swept up in Hank's arms, gasping at the display of strength, hips thrusting forward in an instinctive movement. "Holy fuck."  
  
Hank grins at him, then walks them upstairs. Connor directs him to the proper doorway, because sure they _could_ fuck in Aunt Amanda's room but he doesn't have a kink for being murdered and she'd absolutely know one way or another, and Hank opens Connor’s bedroom door and deposits him on the bed so gently he almost feels like crying.

It's not like he hasn't had sex before. Good sex, even. But the way Hank handles him, looks at him, like he can barely restrain himself from ravaging him but also like he's something incredibly precious—there's a possibility his gaze might have gone a little bit dopey, but. Jesus. He's allowed to be happy that this is happening, that Hank is standing above him smiling soft like he knows what he's thinking. Maybe he does. He's smiling too, after all.  
  
"You have a window onto the backyard," Hank says, still looking at him.  
  
"Oh. Yeah?"

"Did you ever watch me?"  
  
It's a simple enough question, but the way Hank is looking at him isn't—like there's something burning blistering hot just under the surface and the way he answers will determine whether it's let out. but, well, there's only one way he can answer. If he's going to be truthful, that is.   
  
"All the time," he breathes, blinking up at him, and Hank's groan sounds almost painful until it's muffled into desperate kisses and scrabbling at clothes. "All the time," he pants out when he can, "I couldn't help it, you're so— _fuck_ —"

He gets Hank's dumb ineffectual white shirt off and immediately sets to running his hands everywhere he can reach. "God, look who's talking," Hank mumbles, tugging at Connor's wet sleep shorts until he can pull them off and throw them to some corner of the room. Connor had foregone underwear—not like he was _planning_ this after all—and Hank freezes at the sight before pressing frenzied kisses up his thigh, moans vibrating against the skin.

Connor's hips lift into the air at the feeling, the sight of it, an impossibly beautiful thing. "Hank, please," he gasps, "You—your—I want to see you, fuck, I want to touch you—"   
  
"Fuck," Hank curses, and reaches for the buttons at the waist of his shorts. They pop open without much effort, and he steps out of them and his underwear, kicking them behind him. Connor's mouth waters at the sight of Hank's cock, and he licks his lips, looking back at Hank and beckoning him to the bed again.

Hank climbs onto him, straddles him, and Connor draws his fingertips feather-light over his shoulders, down to his nipples, to the bulk of his belly. "I thought about this so much," he whispers, swallows. "So much, about—how you'd look, how you'd feel—" His fingers brush over his thigh, still just as light, and Hank shudders, head throwing back briefly. "I was always thinking about it. But it's still better."

Hank looks slowly back down at him, and the smile he gives is small but genuine, the kiss he dips down to give Connor just as much so. "It's like that," he says. "When it's someone you—it's like that."  
  
He thinks he knows what he means, and kisses him again to show it. Connor's hips buck up again when Hank moves his lips to one of his nipples and licks at it, murmurs how he could always see these in the morning, how he always wanted to take them into his mouth like this. Hank grinds down in return, and they end up finding a rhythm together. Connor gropes blindly at Hank's ass, panting wetly against his shoulder, mouthing at his neck, while Hank grinds down. Hank sucks at whatever patch of skin he can find and positions his hands on Connor's hips until he's moving Connor to grind up against him too.

He hadn't imagined their first time being like this—this messy, desperate fumbling, both of them reduced to sound and movement, frotting against each other until the electric-hot feeling in their abdomens builds too high and spills over. But it's still better, incomparably so. Afterwards, Connor laughingly shoves Hank to the side, but they still stay tangled up in one another, just looking at each other and exchanging idle kisses and caresses.  
  
"This isn't my job, you know," Hank murmurs after a kiss that lands just shy of Connor's eye. "Hm?" Connor hums drowsily, happily occupied with a handful of Hank's ass still.   
  
"I have a job, I mean. The—the gardening. The roses." He laughs as Connor wrinkles his nose irritably and buries his face in Hank's shoulder. "Your aunt. Ringing any bells?"

"I'm sure they'll live a little while longer without the usual pampering, whereas I will not," Connor says airily, and Hank laughs harder, clutching him closer to his chest and kissing at the top of his head.   
  
"Oh, huh, that so?"  
  
"Absolutely. And anyway." Connor waves a hand. Hank can't see it, but it's the principle of the thing. And also, it allows him a chance to reposition said hand on one of the rolls of fat at Hank's midsection, which is also a great section of real estate if he does say so himself. And he does. "Anyway, if one of them dies or gets withery or something then, I mean. It's really her fault, don't you think?"  
  
"How do you figure?" Hank's voice is indulgent, but smiling. He'll permit it.  
  
"I mean. She asked me to come here, she hired you. So." He waves a hand again. "Her fault. I'm standing by that."

Hank hums, and throws one of his legs over Connor's to hook over them and bring him ever closer. "Hmm. Well, if that's the case, we'll have to thank her."  
  
Connor pauses, then hides his smile against Hank's skin. It's so, so very nice to be able to touch after all this time. "Yeah, I suppose so."  
  
(They won't, at least not until Connor's toast at their wedding a few years later, but Aunt Amanda does get home and take a look at how Connor is hanging off her gardener's shoulder and roll her eyes fondly. And then she raises her voice and yells, "Connor Stern, you get your ass away from those roses right that second or so help me, there's a reason I hired that man and Lord knows it wasn't for your sake!"   
  
You know. Mostly just on principle.)

**Author's Note:**

> again, apologies for any mistakes in formatting, i tried to catch what i could but shrug. this was twitter first!
> 
> thank you for reading! i am on twitter at [@boringbibs](https://twitter.com/boringbibs)!


End file.
